


of smoke, of grief, and of love

by redscudery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Tumblr: johnlockchallenges, Unconsciousness, Valentine's exchange, after that, at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Johnlockchallenges’ Valentine’s Day Challenge 2014.</p><p>Prompt was from marmar151: “after the bonfire scene. John comes in after the scene with Sherlock's parents, before Sherlock can speak, John pulls him in a tight hug and says "thanks I..I'm glad you're back". You can use your imagination from there”</p>
            </blockquote>





	of smoke, of grief, and of love

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There's a bit of a dub-con-y touching at first, when John is unconscious. Sherlock keeps it above the collarbones, but it might be upsetting to some.

“Promise.” Sherlock pushed the door shut quickly, then turned.

“OOF.” The breath left his body as John pinned him against the wall, arms tight around him.

 

“Thanks..”

 

A stuttering pause, John’s breath close in his ear, “I…I’m glad you’re back.”

 

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know why John was here, so close, pressing against him in a way that was not, on the surface, a preliminary to being punched in the face. It was a hug, he supposed. Lestrade had hugged him in the parking garage fairly recently.

 

This didn’t feel like that hug.

 

Sherlock tried to identify the reason for the difference. John’s sandy hair, still a bit smoky, tickling his nose. Sherlock bent forward and smelled him carefully, noting the cheap shampoo, the Pears soap, the undefinable John smell that underlay the smoke. The washing soap used for his clothes was new-Sherlock’s nose twitched a bit at this- but otherwise he smelled as he always had.

 

He turned to his other senses. He could really only see John’s hair and shoulders; not much, beyond a few of Mary’s hairs stuck to his coat. He felt John solid in his arms, silent beyond the rasp of his breath. He lifted his own hands to touch John’s back; under the roughness of his coat- 100% wool, British- his heart was beating faster than usual and his breath was even more shallow than before.

 

Then John went limp.

 

Sherlock stood without moving for a minute, supporting John’s weight in his arms, before he did anything. As he lifted one hand to better convey John to the couch, John’s head lolled to the side. Sherlock’s tongue flicked out, almost despite himself, and touched first John’s ear, then his neck. The flush of arousal hit him at almost the same time as the data did: salt and smoke and, again, always, John.

 

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Sherlock walked John’s unconscious body the six steps backwards to the couch and lowered him down. Loosening John’s collar buttons, Sherlock’s fingers grazed John’s chest. The skin was softer than he would have expected, and Sherlock’s arousal intensified.

 

He wasn’t surprised that John’s proximity aroused him; he’d known, albeit subconsciously—”that means you were wrong, Sherlock, when you thought I was just your friend” says his internal John—for years.

 

He knew, peripherally, that he shouldn’t keep touching John, either. John was unconscious. It was, to say the least, not good.

 

Well. Not good.

 

It wasn’t _right_. Didn’t mean it wasn’t _good_.

 

Carefully, he placed two fingers on John’s carotid artery. Under the light gold skin, the blood pulsed slowly but steadily.

 

He wasn’t going to slide his fingers up to the soft indent behind John’s ear until he did. Soft sandy hair brushed his knuckles, a waft of breath catching the inside of his arm. The warm, damp heat caught him directly in the groin, almost a physical blow.

 

He bent forward. Another movement, a few more degrees would have his lips on John’s. Sherlock placed his hand on the arm of the couch, holding himself up and apart, further from John now than he had been in two years. He wanted so much to close the gap and brush that beloved, familiar mouth with his own.

 

He hovered, one degree closer, undecided.

 

Then, though, John turned his head, a low groan coming from his mouth, Sherlock straightened up and stepped away, to get a cold compress and to catch his breath. By the time he was back, John’s eyes were open.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“You fainted, John.”

 

“I haven’t fainted since I got shot. What did you do, chloroform me?”

 

“Not today.”

 

“Smoke inhalation, then.”

 

“And emotion.”

 

John glared at Sherlock from underneath the compress, but he didn’t contradict him.

 

“What’s wrong with you? And what do you mean, ‘Not today’?”

 

“Me? John, I am not the one who suffered a near-death experience.”

 

“No, of course not, just two years of God-knows-what…and seriously,‘Not today’? ” John coughed.

 

Sherlock’s face was impassive.

 

“Tea? You should drink something.”

 

“Water." John pushed himself up to a sitting position, coughed again.

 

“Careful.” Sherlock reached out, placed his hand on John’s chest. John looked down, slowly registering the size and weight. Sherlock pressed, keeping him in his spot.

 

“Since when do you tell me to be careful?”

 

“It’s too soon, John.”

 

John raised his eyebrows.

 

“Too soon? Sherlock, YOU were the one who…”

 

“Still too soon, John. I can’t…I couldn’t…” Sherlock got up, walked to the kitchen, got a glass of water. John was still sitting there, staring, when he came back.

 

“I never thought of you missing me.”

 

“You don’t think of much.”

 

John licked his lips.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock handed him a glass of water. John drank.

 

“Better?”

 

“Yes.”

 

John leaned his head back against the arm of the couch. Sherlock bent forward, closer to him.

 

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your pupils.”

 

“I’m the doctor here.” A weak protest, though, and when Sherlock reached out and touched his face, John turned toward him, letting his jaw rest in the cradle of Sherlock’s palm.

 

“You’re all right.” Low and quiet.

 

“I’m all right. Now.”

 

Sherlock leaned in. Now that John was awake, this proximity was completely different; John’s eyes were open and their breathing was synchronized, back and forth, quickening.

 

“Why was I in that fire, Sherlock?” Sherlock tasted those words, a flush on his lips.

 

“Because of me.” Then he gave them back, watching as his breath struck John’s mouth, watching John inhale them.

 

“No.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“No.” A game, now, words back and forth for the pleasure of it.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes.”

 

That was an answer. Sherlock hadn’t thought he’d asked that question, yet.

 

“John?” Just to make sure.

 

“Yes.”

 

And then it wasn’t a game. Sherlock caught John’s last ‘yes’ on his mouth, brushing his lips softly against John’s. John reached up, not tentatively at all, and tangled his fingers in the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head, taking the curve of Sherlock’s skull in his hand. His was the first tongue to flick out, to run across that plush bottom lip.

 

“Oh.” Sherlock’s words spilled into John’s mouth, and John took them in, running his tongue along the inside of Sherlock’s top lip before he pulled him closer still, melting their mouths together in soft, slick pleasure. Sherlock let John lead, marveling at the texture of his lips and tongue, at the acceleration of his breath, of the taste of smoke, of grief and of love.


End file.
